


Going South

by bronweathanharthad



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5354705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bronweathanharthad/pseuds/bronweathanharthad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some glimpses of the Fellowship between Rivendell and Moria.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Going South

They had only just left Rivendell, and Frodo was already restless.

    The Ring wasn’t particularly burdensome; it was certainly worse than Rivendell, though still easily managed. But it worried him that already he felt a difference, and he still had so far to go.

    While the Fellowship slept and Legolas kept vigil, Frodo’s thoughts turned to Bilbo. He was distraught when he learned of Frodo’s duty, utterly inconsolable. Frodo had never seen Bilbo in such a state, and it hurt more knowing that he was the source of Bilbo’s sorrow. Frodo hoped they would meet again, but a doubting voice in his mind said that it was unlikely.

    And his companions. They all had family of some sort. What if they never again saw their parents or their siblings or their loved ones? And it would be his fault.

    His kinsmen shouldn’t be here. They should be comfortably at home. Why did he let them volunteer for this mission? It was certain death.

 

He lay on his back, trying to keep still. He wanted to walk, wondering if it would clear his head, but he feared that he would awaken his companions if he moved.

    He heard someone singing. He suspected that it was Legolas, though the singing was too quiet for him to hear any words. Slowly he inched himself towards the fire, where Legolas kept his watch.

    “What do you sing of?” he asked.

    “Frodo?” Legolas sounded surprised. “Why are you up at this time? Did I wake you?”

    “No; I have too many things on my mind. May I sit with you awhile?”

    “Yes, of course.” After a pause, Legolas continued, “It was a ballad of the Nírnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.”

    That caught Frodo’s attention. He had heard of the Nírnaeth, but he knew almost nothing about it. “What happened during that battle?”

    “It happened early in the first age, well before my father’s time. Most of the elves that survived have long since sailed West, and it is seldom spoken of among my people. It was one of the worst defeats suffered by the Free Peoples against the forces of evil.

    “Morgoth was at the height of his power, and Sauron’s strength was growing. The Free Peoples had ten commanders from elves, men, and dwarves alike, and still Morgoth’s armies completely overwhelmed them. Morgoth suffered great losses, but ours were greater still. Almost everyone fighting for the Free Peoples was slaughtered. Some who survived were taken captive, forced into slavery or tortured until their wills broke.”

    “And those who escaped must have suffered greatly,” Frodo said. “They had to live with their memories and their grief. How could they come back from such a loss?”

    Legolas shook his head. “I could not imagine. They suffered so greatly, but their suffering was far from over even after that defeat.”

 

The next day, Frodo told Sam what Legolas told him. Eager as he was to learn a new piece of Elvish history, Sam was concerned over Frodo’s restless night.

    Most nights Frodo was able to sleep fairly easily, and on other nights Legolas was usually willing – perhaps happy – to share tidbits of Elvish culture. Frodo was glad of Legolas’ willingness, for he found some sense of peace from their conversations.

    Sometimes he divulged the information to Sam, especially if it pertained to legends and folklore, but he was usually hesitant to do so. Sam paid more attention to Frodo’s restless nights than his restful nights, and it was far too early for Sam to worry this much.

 

As the grass of the Trollshaws became the snow of the Misty Mountains, Frodo found himself terribly homesick.

    Snow was uncommon in the Shire, and snowfall always brought a feeling of joy and wonder to the hobbits. Children, tweens, and adults alike eagerly took part in snowball fights, and afterwards everyone would settle down by their fireplace with a mug of piping hot tea.

    The other hobbits were homesick, too – Merry and Pippin especially. Aragorn took notice of that, and one evening he asked Frodo and Sam if they had any ideas of how to cheer them up.

    The next day, as the Fellowship stopped for lunch, Aragorn and Boromir snuck off. Frodo and Sam smiled at one another and strategically sat next to Gandalf, who had some suspicion of Aragorn and Boromir’s agenda.

    Within a few minutes, snowballs started flying. Most landed near Merry and Pippin, but some strayed towards Legolas and Gimli. Legolas, unsure what was happening, didn’t take part in the fight, but Gimli quickly started making snowballs and flinging them wildly. Merry and Pippin, of course, formed their own team right away. Merry made the snowballs, and Pippin threw them.

    Gandalf laughed. Legolas smiled, and Frodo and Sam watched the younger hobbits, glad that they were able to raise Merry and Pippin’s spirits.

 

Each day was noticeably colder than the last. Gandalf, Legolas, and Gimli were fine, but the hobbits were deeply uncomfortable.

    Sam, Merry, and Pippin slept next to each other, lying as close to one another as possible to share warmth. None of them complained about how cold they were, for they worried about the risk of burning a fire at night. It was different when they were closer to Rivendell, but now they were too exposed.

    The cold bothered Aragorn and Boromir as well, though it did not affect them as badly as it affected the hobbits. Walking helped keep them warm, and at night they more tightly wrapped themselves in their blankets and cloaks.

    Though he did not speak of it, the cold bothered Frodo most of all. He slept little, tossing and turning throughout the night. He often felt too tired and stiff to walk. And the throbbing in his shoulder, a constant presence since his awakening, was significantly worse.

    He had endured cold nights between Weathertop and Rivendell, and those nights were the hardest to bear. But October in the Trollshaws was tame compared to January in the Misty Mountains, and though his body had long been purged of the knife, he felt as if the knife was still there.

 

One day Pippin started coughing.

    It was not a matter of concern, but he seemed to be falling ill, and the harshness of the mountains was certainly to blame.

    As the Fellowship continued their hike, Aragorn and Gandalf spoke with one another in private and seemed to reach some sort of agreement. The others didn’t know what they discussed, but no one spoke up, thinking that one of them would say something if it was important.

    When they stopped for the night, all four hobbits ached from the cold. Merry thought about asking to build a fire, if only for Pippin’s sake, but he still worried about the risk. The Enemy was probably searching for them, and after Weathertop he was scared that a fire might give them away.

    Aragorn took out a small pile of kindling. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we shall have to risk a fire tonight.”

    He ordered the Fellowship to let the hobbits, Pippin especially, sleep closest to the fire. He knew how uncomfortable the hobbits were, and Pippin had to be kept warm to prevent him from catching cold.

    Pippin was relieved. Sam and Merry were a little worried but decided to trust Gandalf and Aragorn’s judgment. Frodo was too weary to argue.

    Gandalf encouraged Frodo to lie as close to the fire as possible, promising that he would keep watch and extinguish the fire if he suspected any danger.

    As the hobbits retrieved their blankets from their packs, Frodo and Sam briefly brushed hands. Sam was alarmed at how cold Frodo’s hand felt, and he expressed his worry.

    “I’m all right, Sam,” Frodo said somewhat unconvincingly. “Get some sleep.”

 

_It was a dark, cloudy night with an unusual chill in the air. The nearby fire was the only source of light._

_Someone’s feet – his feet – stamped out the fire and carried him to the top of the hill. Five figures appeared from the shadows, all with swords drawn. The figure in the center unsheathed a knife, a knife so malevolent in appearance that Frodo felt pain just by looking at it._

_The Ring was in his hand, now on his finger. The knife looked more evil still from this warped view._

_The figure drew back the knife, preparing to strike. Frodo, completely silenced and unable to move, could only wait and watch as the knife pierced his flesh._

    Frodo jolted up with a gasp, his heart pounding and his shoulder screaming. He was too confused to cry out, but his hand instinctively grabbed his shoulder, and it took some time for the pain to subside and his breathing to normalize.

    A voice calling his name returned him to the present.

    The fire still burned, and Gandalf (as far as Frodo knew) was the only one awake.

    “Was it a nightmare?” Gandalf asked.

    Frodo nodded.

    Gandalf moved closer. “Are you all right?”

    Frodo hesitated. “I don’t know. I have had nightmares before, but never like this.”

    “Was it about Weathertop?”

    “Yes. It was the moments before…” Frodo couldn’t finish the sentence. He feared that he might relive it again if he put it into words.

    “Frodo,” Gandalf said, with pity in his eyes, “it does not surprise me – nor should it surprise you – that you have had a nightmare about it.”

    “Why not?”

    “Because it was the most frightening experience of your life. You very nearly died, or worse. You spoke of it a good deal while you were unconscious.” Gandalf looked into Frodo’s eyes, and Frodo could plainly see his sorrow. “The things you said frightened me, too. I could not believe that you had suffered something so cruel, and the more you spoke, the more I feared for you. I would expect you to have nightmares after that kind of suffering. If you didn’t, then something would be wrong.”

    “Gandalf,” Frodo said haltingly, “there is something else. My shoulder has ached a great deal these last few nights, much more so than when we were in Rivendell. I had hoped by this point that the pain would subside.”

    Gandalf paused. He saw no reason to be dishonest with Frodo. He was already so shaken, but he deserved to know what Gandalf knew. “Frodo,” he said, “you cannot expect the pain to go away completely. You are no longer in danger of entering the Shadow-realm, but Elrond could not fully heal you.

    “I know about the chill you felt before Elrond treated you. Perhaps the wound has made you more sensitive to the cold. Perhaps in time you will grow accustomed to the pain, but it will always be there. It might worsen when you are distressed, or it might worsen for no particular reason. Elrond did all that he could, but I expect that you will carry it for the rest of your life.”

    Frodo’s heart sank. He already doubted his strength to carry the Ring all the way to Mount Doom, and not he further doubted himself knowing that his wound may very well get worse.

    But then again, maybe he might become so preoccupied with the Ring that he wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. And maybe it would be easier to bear if he returned home.

    “Thank you for being so forthright,” Frodo said. After a pause he added, “Please don’t tell Sam about this.

I don’t want him to worry.”

    Gandalf nodded. “Get some sleep, Frodo. You are safe with me.”


End file.
